What Nobody Tells You About Reality TV — And What I Think We Need To Talk About
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I have been thinking about how to write this for a long time.
Not because I do not know what I want to say — I do. But because I want to say it in a way that is useful. That moves something forward. That contributes to a conversation that I believe is genuinely overdue, not just in Australia but globally.
This is not an attack on a show or a network. It is a series of observations from someone who lived it — and a genuine question about whether the systems around reality television are fit for purpose.
On participant safety
The format of shows like MAFS places participants in situations that carry inherent risk — and I do not think that risk is adequately disclosed or managed.
You are matched and married to a stranger. Within days you are expected to share a room with that person, navigate conflict on camera, and then return to a private space together at the end of each filming day. The cameras stop. The crew goes home. And whatever tension was generated on set that day comes with you into that room.
Think about that again.
Conflict, exposure, and then nowhere to go. The argument that just played out — raw, escalating, witnessed by a crew and destined for an international audience of millions — doesn’t end when the producers call cut. It follows you into the elevator. Into the room. The door closes and now it’s just the two of you, and one of you is furious, and one of you is frightened, and outside that door the footage already exists. You cannot take back what was said. You cannot control what gets aired, what gets clipped, what gets looped on social media in forty countries. For someone determined to control their image — their narrative, their rage, the face they show the world — that is an unbearable loss of power. And that loss doesn’t dissipate. It has to go somewhere.
I am not making specific allegations here. I am describing the structure — and asking whether that structure has been properly thought through from a duty of care perspective.
On Love Island, cameras roll continuously. There is no unsupervised private time during the experiment. That is a deliberate safeguarding decision. The question worth asking is why that same standard is not applied across all formats where strangers are placed in intimate living situations under significant psychological pressure.
The answer, I suspect, is that continuous filming changes what happens in those private moments — and those moments are part of what makes the television.
That is a conversation the industry needs to have honestly.
On editing and its consequences
There is a person on every reality TV production called a storyline editor. Their job is to construct character arcs from raw footage. I did not know that when I signed up. I do not believe most participants do.
A character arc requires characters — and characters require definition. A hero. A villain. Someone the audience roots for and someone they do not. In a format built around romantic conflict, women disproportionately occupy the more unflattering roles.
I want to be careful here about what I can and cannot say. What I can say is this: we signed contracts that included rights over how we were depicted. What those contracts did not — and arguably could not — account for was the psychological consequence of that depiction landing in front of millions of people, being amplified online, and following us into real life indefinitely.
The damage from a bad edit is not a short-term PR problem. It is a long-term mental health event. It affects how strangers treat you, how media covers you, and how you see yourself. For some people it has been genuinely serious.
I also want to raise a question I have been sitting with. If the characters on these shows are constructed in editing — if the narrative is shaped by a production team, the scenes are sequenced for effect, the music tells you how to feel — are the people on screen performers or participants? And if they are closer to performers, why are they not afforded the protections that performers receive?
I do not have a clean answer to that. But I think it is worth asking.
On aftercare
The support provided to participants after filming ends is not proportionate to the experience they have been through or the exposure they face when the show airs.
The advice most commonly given is to stay off social media. For someone who is now publicly recognised — stopped in the street, commented on in restaurants, tagged in content they did not consent to — that advice is not practical and it is not sufficient.
What I believe is needed is meaningful, long-term, in-person psychological support. Not an app. Not a helpline. Not a pamphlet about managing your online presence. Real clinical support, delivered by qualified professionals, covering the specific experience of being a reality TV participant — including the filming conditions, the editorial process, and the sustained public scrutiny that follows.
The app currently used to provide aftercare support in the Australian context is, in my experience and in the experience of others I have spoken with, inadequate for what participants actually go through.
On patterns
When allegations emerged from the UK version of a similar format, I was not surprised. I want to be honest about that.
There is a network of women in Australia who have been through these shows and who share their experiences with one another privately. The stories that eventually become public are rarely new to that group. They are simply the ones that finally reached a platform large enough that they could not be managed quietly.
That is not a criticism of any individual. It is an observation about how institutions — including media institutions — handle uncomfortable information about their own products.
The question of whether these patterns are structural rather than incidental is one I think regulators, broadcasters, and production companies need to engage with seriously and publicly. Not defensively. Not with statements about how much they care about participant wellbeing. With actual, verifiable changes to how these formats operate.
What I would like to see
I am not calling for these shows to be cancelled. I watch them myself. I understand their appeal and I understand the genuine connections that can come from them.
What I am asking for is proportionate accountability.
Transparent disclosure of filming conditions — including hours, sleeping arrangements, and the role of production in shaping storylines — before participants sign.
Genuine vetting processes with clear, published standards around what disqualifies a candidate and why.
Mandatory, long-term, in-person psychological support for all participants — not optional, not outsourced to an app, not conditional on something going visibly wrong.
An industry-wide conversation about the legal and ethical status of reality TV participants — and whether the current frameworks adequately protect the people who make these shows possible.
These are not radical requests. They are basic standards of care for people who are asked to give a great deal and who, right now, receive very little in return.
I participated in this format. I am glad for some of what came from it - mainly meeting the love of my life, my now husband Clint. I am also clear-eyed about what it cost — and about the fact that for some women (and men), it cost considerably more.
That is worth saying out loud.
— Jacqui x